Perhaps. Haraldr, mind aching from sleeplessness and worry, tried again to make sense of it. What if the giant had not acted on his own? Who had sent him? Haraldr was too fatigued to think of the possibilities. And his mind was too full of Maria. She appeared in a flash of alabaster; he could feel her smooth, wet skin. The previous night he had taken her back to the villa before he had alerted his own men to the attempt on his life. At the gate she had given him a kiss more erotic, certainly more emotionally powerful, than their embrace in the Temple of Hecate. She had saved his life, and he hers. But that kiss had told him that they had yet to plumb the depths of their shared fate.
‘There!’ BIymmedes stood in his stirrups and pointed to the rugged crags that pushed the coast road against the azure band of the sea. Haraldr saw nothing, but BIymmedes assured him that a large Saracen force was stirring dust in the heights. ‘We’re vulnerable now that we have turned south to Laodecia. They’re waiting.’
‘I’m going to the Empress,’ said Haraldr. Signalling Gregory to follow, he spurred ahead, passing the huge baggage train of Attalietes’s thematic army. Incredible, he thought as he observed the rugs and pillows and wine jars these so-called soldiers had brought along. Before he had transited half of the thematic army’s line of creaking wagons and groaning pack mules, he was passed by two akrites heading in the opposite direction, their dust- and sweat-stained mantles flying and their horses whipped to a furious, foaming gallop. Only minutes later Blymmedes came by, heading towards the Imperial carriages like a whirlwind. ‘This is it!’ yelled the elbows-akimbo Domestic.
Haraldr whipped his horse in pursuit of Blymmedes, but by the time he reached the Imperial carriages, the Domestic had already dismounted, stopped the caravan, and engaged himself in discussion with Symeon and the resplendently armoured Meletius Attalietes; Halldor, who had remained with the Empress’s carriage, looked on helplessly. Haraldr was grateful when the dogged Gregory arrived less than a minute later, though even without his interpreter he had already discerned that the argument was over the disposition of forces to defend against an imminent attack.
‘I gather that Domestic Blymmedes wants to disengage half his force,’ said Gregory breathlessly, ‘in order to protect the Empress if the Saracens move for the Imperial carriages, or, should the Saracens capture part of the baggage train, to pursue them while they are laden with spoils. The Strategus Attalietes forbids this. He commands the Domestic Blymmedes to use all his forces to guard the Imperial baggage train. As far as the Strategus Attalietes is concerned, the matter is settled.’
Blymmedes continued his livid, arm-thrusting presentation of his strategy, but Attalietes merely stood with his arms folded and his snub nose lifted. Blymmedes finally stopped, stomped the dust layered over the paving stones, and turned away. Then Attalietes spoke to Symeon.
‘You will not like this, Haraldr Nordbrikt. The Strategus suggests that the Empress, in the person of her Chamberlain Symeon, command the Varangians to guard ... to guard the thematic army.’ Gregory cleared his throat anxiously. ‘Excuse me, I am embarrassed to have to clarify that. To guard the baggage train of the thematic army.’
Haraldr’s aching skull could not even momentarily contain his fury. ‘Symeon,’ he shouted, ‘I am ordered by the Emperor himself to offer my life and that of all my men in defence of our Mother! I will not guard donkeys while she goes undefended!’ Haraldr stepped towards Attalietes and narrowed his eyes at the arrogant Strategus, with satisfaction detecting the spark of fear. ‘Symeon, you tell this strutting peacock that we will die before we withdraw from the person of the Empress, and if the Strategus Attalietes wishes otherwise, he will first have to convince my own sword!’ Haraldr did not add that there was now another life in the Imperial carriage for which he would sacrifice his own a thousand times.
Gregory translated with admirable emphasis. Attalietes’s pale forehead coloured, Blymmedes made no attempt to conceal his smile, and Symeon stared as if Haraldr had worn red silk to an Imperial banquet. His lifeless fingers suddenly clasped in relative agitation, Symeon walked a few paces to Her Imperial Majesty’s carriage and tapped the window. The door opened slightly and Symeon stuck his head in. After a moment he walked back to the still speechless group of military men, his corpse-like composure restored. He said nothing.
The door to the Imperial carriage opened wide. Gilded wooden steps were placed in the dust, Leo dropped out in sparkling white silk, Theodore following with a gold-tasselled silk parasol he quickly opened. Michael Kalaphates leapt out, cinching the leather straps of a bright new bronze breastplate embossed with a rearing lion. Leo extended a hand into the carriage, and the pearl- and gold-studded red silk slipper of Zoe the purple-born reached for the great Roman road upon which she had travelled, for perhaps a hundred rowing-spells, without ever setting down her foot.
Supported by Leo, her face discreetly veiled in crimson gauze, Zoe watched as her commanders fell to their faces before her. When they stood again, she spoke to Gregory in a husky, fearless tone.
‘The Strategus Attalietes is the ranking military commander, and as such he represents the will of my husband, our Father, in the matter of my defence. Komes Haraldr, if you do not carry out his order, I will command your centurion here to administer summarily the punishment for treason.’ She turned and fixed Halldor with a stare that blanched even his face. ‘If your centurion will not perform this duty, I will order the Domestic Blymmedes to carry out the execution of both traitors.’
Haraldr looked at Blymmedes and saw no indication that his friend would not do as his Empress had commanded. He mastered his rage at his own impotence, but his breast was leaden with the thought that Maria would share her Empress’s fate. But perhaps Blymmedes was right; the baggage train would be the objective. What could he achieve, anyway, now forced to place Halldor’s head on the block and challenge his friend, Blymmedes. And it seemed the Empress was determined to perform her own execution. Almost unable to breathe, Haraldr bowed deeply, gave the order for the Varangians to re-deploy, and backed up to his horse with his arms crossed over his breast. At least he had another answer. It was the Strategus Meletius Attalietes who wanted his Empress dead.
Shielded by her parasol from the glancing late-afternoon sun, Zoe kissed Michael Kalaphates on the forehead and wished him the Beneficence of the Theotokos. Then, assisted by her eunuchs, she returned to her carriage and settled beside Maria.
‘We will wait here,’ Zoe said calmly. Her lips mused sensuously. ‘When we are finally put away and at our privacy, you must tell me about your . . . interview last night with the Komes. You have put such a fire in his eyes, and, my darling . . . well, I have never seen your countenance quite so ... avid. We will talk of it during the long days ahead. You know your Mother is fascinated by . . .details.’
Maria said nothing, lost in her labyrinth of fear and desire. Could this be the death his eyes had promised her the night before? Was this where the three lines crossed?
‘Little Daughter!’ the Empress said soothingly. ‘Surely you are not worried about . . . this’ Zoe waved her hand languidly. ‘Symeon assures us that the Emir of Aleppo is most hospitable.’
Blymmedes pointed to the dust cyclones that had appeared at the head and tail of the long, motionless Imperial columns. His infantry were raising their own reddish clouds as they returned to formation after spreading thousands of spiked iron balls, called caltrops, on the plain between the road and the sea. ‘There, Komes Haraldr. You see how they are flanking the column at both ends. Now they will circle back to come in with the sun behind them. That’s why I spread my caltrops to the seaward side. If I were giving the orders, I would send my light cavalry there’ - he pointed north to a distant point along the coast - ‘and there’ - now Blymmedes pointed south - ‘and crush them in my pincers when they fell on the baggage train.’ Blymmedes slapped his hands together and looked with admiration at the line of Varangians in gleaming byrnnies.
‘Fortunately your men are adept at stat
ic defence. Well, good luck, Komes Haraldr.’ Blymmedes waved dashingly as he galloped back to the Imperial baggage train.
Haraldr turned to his men, dismounted, and lined up facing the sea as Blymmedes had suggested; Haraldr had placed archers behind the first spear-wielding, shield-raised rank. The overloaded mules behind the archers wheezed and brayed, and the batmen chattered with nervous excitement. Haraldr rode out in front of the Varangians, stood in his stirrups, and tried to strike a balance between his own utter despair and the kind of valiant exhortation that would merely humiliate his men further; they knew they guarded mules and rugs.
‘This time the Maumet’s men will not be ghosts,’ he shouted evenly, as if giving routine instructions. ‘Remember, we must first shoot horses, then spear horses. Then, if the men still come against us, we will let them feel the bite of Hunland steel!’ Haraldr had expected the half-hearted acknowledgement he received, but the muttering only fuelled his anxiety. The men had every right to be dispirited, he thought, stallions asked to pull the plough alongside the ox and the mule.
After perhaps a quarter of an hour the sound came from the sea. At first the noise was almost like wind whistling through a narrow opening, but it quickly rose and fragmented into the trillings of an enormous and angry flock. A rusty pall soon shrouded the sea, and then the glittering cloud of dust boiled out of the sun. The noise seemed to advance and retreat in a horrible, shrill wailing. The Saracen host rode forward at a pace that seemed unreal, as if nature had somehow compressed time. They were dressed much like the Romans’ own akrites, spectacularly in silver and white, helms and curved blades glimmering before the dust cloud that they seemed to out-race. Their unearthly shrieking, rising and falling in violent rhythm, scraped the nerves. Haraldr stood at the centre of his Varangian wall, his shield set, and gave his bowmen the order to fire. Almost instantly the huge white and black and grey dappled horses in the vanguard toppled, legs buckling and skewing. But the rest leapt over the writhing beasts and their hapless riders, making little attempt to avoid crushing their own men. Haraldr took a step forward and set his spear. Arrows clattered against the Varangian shields - Haraldr wondered how men on horses were attaining such prodigious bowshots - but the return salvo brought down another rank of horsemen. Still the rest came on, now only a hundred ells away.
The horsemen abruptly veered, whipping light throwing-spears against the Varangian shields as they turned off towards the north. Another salvo from the Varangian archers and the horses and riders began to pile up; the following ranks were refusing to advance beyond the flailing parapet of fallen mounts. Saracen arrows still rained with surprising force against the Norse wall of shields, but Haraldr could not see a single Varangian down. Haraldr yelled for Halldor and Ulfr to come to the centre.
‘Have we slain enough of their horses?’ asked Halldor dryly.
Haraldr shook his head. ‘They seemed bold enough even within our bowshot. Perhaps they are tempting us to begin our own offensive . . . Kristr!’ Haraldr’s sudden epiphany clutched at his belly. ‘This is only the feint! The Empress!’ Haraldr brought his head back and bellowed so that he was heard over even the cataclysmic shrilling of the Saracens. ‘Boar!’
The line of Varangians almost instantly re-formed into the impenetrable wedge of the swine-array. Haraldr took the snout, flanked by Halldor and Ulfr. The Saracens quieted for a moment as Varangian axes pounded on shields. As the boar moved to the south, the mounted fury of the Saracens raced to blunt its snout.
Haraldr did not know how long the Rage seized him. So immense was the relief of feeling Odin’s favour again, he thought he could slash and hack until his blade wore to a nub. The Saracens were indeed brave; they came forward in endless files with their howling black faces and agate eyes, their silver arcs swishing. And they fell relentlessly to the Norse blades. Haraldr’s boots were soaked with blood when the Saracen horde finally disappeared, almost vaporously, like a sea mist rolling back from a morning sun.
The road ahead was littered with corpses. Like terrible blossoms, white robes and quilted cotton jerkins were spotted with brilliant crimson. Roman and Saracen corpses at first, then a growing preponderance of Romans, quilted armour soaked, sleeveless byrnnies glazed red, conical helms cast everywhere. Horses bleated in agony, joined by the screams of men. The vultures made obscene circles above. The thematic army of Cilicia had been virtually annihilated.
The Imperial carriages were surrounded by a low ridge of corpses. Several white-robed eunuchs sat wailing, beating their chests and tearing at their silken hems; Symeon stood like a corpse that had neglected to fall. A dark-haired, silk-clad woman wandered dazed, and Haraldr., breast exploding, began to run to Maria. But no, it was Anna. Then Haraldr saw the Empress’s purple-panelled carriage. The lumbering four-wheeled wagon had been tipped over. The gold-scrolled, white-lacquered door on the upturned side was open. Numb with horror, Haraldr peered inside. The scent that lingered, her scent, choked him with anguish. The carriage was empty.
Blymmedes charged up and leapt off his horse, his face pale and scowling beneath his golden helm. Clearly shocked, he stumbled over the corpses and looked inside the carriage. He turned to Haraldr with pain in his eyes and whispered, ‘You are the better tactician, my friend.’ Then he turned over one of the Saracen corpses. The man had a neat black beard and decayed teeth that showed between slightly parted, claret lips. One of his eyes had become a livid bruise, but the other was open, and the staring iris was as black as a raven’s plume. ‘Not Saracens,’ said the Domestic hoarsely, tears welling in his eyes. ‘Seljuks.’
Haraldr looked across the plain to the sea; the sun skimmed rays over distant golden ripples. He turned and the snowy crests to the east flared with the glow of the plunging orange globe. Where was his Mother? And where was his love? Distractedly, the pain too great for thought, he began to check the fallen for signs of life. He nudged a shoulder and turned a limp body on its back. He knew the now-battered bronze breastplate before he saw the face. Michael Kalaphates. Haraldr ripped away the breastplate and hollered for water for the bloodied lips. Kalaphates was alive.
‘Komes!’ Haraldr left Kalaphates with the water-bearer and ran to Blymmedes, who knelt beside a corpse he had uncovered from beneath several slain Seljuks. His arrogant features almost serene, the Strategus Meletius Attalietes’s body reposed in eternal sleep, his golden breastplate punctured by a broken spear and his golden helm crushed into his skull just above his ear. Blymmedes sealed Attalietes’s partially open eyes with respect, closed his own, and whispered an epitaph for the Strategus. ‘He fought bravely.’
The Magnara Palace was dark and empty, the tapestries shrouds on the wall, the golden throne a looming silhouette. The carpets had been rolled up and the black-frocked figure paced the bare marble; despite the size of his enormous spade-shaped boots, the Orphanotrophus Joannes made no sound to mask the whisper of his fine wool frock. As he walked, he calculated the time as he calculated everything - in his head, with unerring precision. He did not need to rely on the endlessly clicking water clocks that coerced lesser men, because he could rely on the sound - no, not the sound, but something more subtle, more intuitive - of the city. His city. He could sense its rhythms, the rising in the morning and the settling at night, with ineffable, primal instinct, in the way a bee might locate its hive. It was a vibration only he could feel, and it told him the time with far more precision that the grandiose machines the Dhynatoi amused themselves with. And from the movements of his city he could also discern much that those clocks would never tell their owners high on their hilltop palaces. But at this moment only time concerned him.
It goes well; this much he permitted himself. The message received in the second hour, exactly according to plan. The third hour had passed with no signal; that was an enormous relief, particularly given the unpredictability of the agents they were dealing with. But the excruciating effort would be for naught if the fourth hour passed without a message. And his city told the Orphanotrophus tha
t the fourth hour of the night was three quarters gone. The message was already a few minutes overdue.
Hating his own lack of control, the Orphanotrophus walked behind the throne; left the audience chamber through the silent, hidden entrance used by the Emperor; climbed the large spiral staircase to the cabinet chamber, and took the smaller staircase up into the clock room and observation deck. The attendants went about their duties, accustomed to if not comfortable with the lurking presence of the giant monk. Joannes stepped out onto his own private balcony adjacent to the observation deck. Lamps flared along the towering seawall beneath him, and the bright points of ship lanterns drifted on the Bosporus. Here and there the Asian palaces of the Dhynatoi formed little constellations off into the east. He knew the exact position of Mount Afxendios and stared without blinking. Only ten minutes left in the hour.
Eight. The beacon glimmered for a tantalizing instant. Then, more brilliant than the evening star, the light that had begun in faraway Toulon exploded and flared across the last expanse of Asia Minor. A pity, thought Joannes as he quickly turned and headed back into the palace. The Senator and Magister Nicon Attalietes has lost his favourite son.
Joannes opened the door to the small ground-floor antechamber, a disused room once employed for storage of the censers and icons that cluttered the Magnara on ceremonial occasions; Joannes had had many of these superfluous treasures melted into more utilitarian assets. His guest waited in darkness and Joannes lit a single oil lamp; he had learned years ago that men found flickering light on his face far more frightening than simply his voice emerging from the shadows. Thank you for waiting,’ Joannes told his guest.
The man shifted his clumsy, sandalled feet and bowed deeply. His rough burlap tunic exposed thick burly calves. His face was round but had long seamlike scars from which his jowls seemed to hang as if wired to his face; his richly veined nose was studded with two warts. He smelled of cheap resiny wine.
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